Staking a Claim
by LadyDivine91
Summary: After Kurt's breakfast gets claimed by a bratty interloper, he finds another way to rescue his morning ... and sate his appetite. Daddies Klaine. Kurt H. Blaine A.


"Whatcha doin'?"

Kurt peeks up, locking eyes with his daughter just as he puts the finishing touches on his favorite breakfast in the universe – a buckwheat Belgian waffle, smothered in maple syrup, topped with berries, powdered sugar, and whipped topping. There was only enough mix to make the one waffle, and considering the fact that neither Blaine nor Tracy was awake yet, having spent the whole night up till one watching old musicals, Kurt thought he'd be safe to have this one before he ran out to the market to get more.

As Tracy waddles over, rubbing her eyes, led to the kitchen island entirely by her sniffing nose, Kurt realizes how wrong he was.

Nothing can defeat the powerful aroma of a freshly made waffle.

It's one of the few indulgences Kurt allows himself to have, and now … it's in danger.

"I'm having a little breakfast before I run to the store to buy you and Daddy breakfast," Kurt says, declaring clearly his intention to eat this waffle before he goes out to procure food for his loved ones. It's both calm and logical – neither of which ever seems to matter to a nine-year-old, no matter what the parenting books say.

Tracy climbs up onto a stool and gives another more obvious sniff inches away from Kurt's breakfast.

"It smells _really_ good," she says, stomach growling as if on cue. "And I'm _really_ hungry."

"Well, I can whip you up an omelet now," Kurt says, reaching for the carton of eggs without taking his eyes off Tracy, creeping closer to his breakfast. "Then I'll make you a waffle when I get back from the store if you're still hungry."

"But I don't like eggs!"

"Since when do you not like eggs? You eat them all the time!"

"Since now!" Tracy reaches out a hand to snatch a berry, but Kurt moves the plate out of her reach.

"No, Tracy! Now I told you, I'll make you …"

"Morning!" Blaine says, strolling into the kitchen, yawning and stretching in the doorway, reaching his arms above his head until his back cracks.

Kurt doesn't finish his sentence.

He can't help but stop and look.

Usually Blaine takes the time to brush his teeth and gel down his hair before he walks into the kitchen. But lured by the smell of Kurt's breakfast (which Kurt knows because he's stumbling in the same way Tracy did, with eyes squinted shut and his nose in the air), he joins the party with hair mussed, wearing a too tight and too thin t-shirt, the waistband of his wrinkled lounge pants pulled down to his hips, the combination putting an array of defined abs on marvelous display.

He doesn't look like a man who went to bed late after watching movies with his daughter.

He looks like he rolled out of bed after spending a whole night being thoroughly fucked … and since that absolutely did not happen, and hasn't for a while, Kurt is driven to distraction.

His mouth starts to water. His stomach tightens. And behind the shield of the kitchen island, his cock throbs.

"Why, hello, handsome," Kurt says, giving his husband a lecherous once-over as he wanders over, leaning in to give his husband a kiss, and oh my. Blaine actually did take a moment to brush his teeth. So, why the disheveled look? Is that all for Kurt's benefit?

God, he hopes it is.

Tracy's eyes bounce from father to father as the two start getting all gross and lovey, focused on talking about their plans for the day. Seizing the opportunity, Tracy grabs the plate, leans forward, and licks the waffle right down the middle, gathering up berries on her tongue and a huge dollop of whipped cream on her nose.

Kurt catches her a half-second too late to save his breakfast.

"Tracy Barbra Ander-Hummel!"

"Ha-ha!" she crows. "I licked it! That means I claimed it! It's mine now!"

Kurt glares at his daughter, then turns on his husband.

"That's _her mother's_ daughter! Right there!"

"Really?" Blaine comments, running his fingers through his curls, gently tugging at the knots. "Because that sounds more like something _Santana_ would say. Maybe she shouldn't babysit so often anymore."

"I don't care! _Blaine_! She's eating the last waffle! _My_ waffle!"

Blaine stares sternly at the little girl digging greedily into her father's breakfast. "_Tracy_ …"

"What?" she asks, mouth so full of waffle and whipped cream she can barely chew.

"Apologize."

Tracy looks up at her dads, deep cognac eyes like her mother's shining bright with mock innocence as she bats her eyes and tilts her head.

"Sor-ry," she sings in a way that sounds so much like Rachel, it makes Kurt's hackles rise. He knows there's a _not sorry_ hiding somewhere on the tip of her tongue, buried underneath the maple syrup, but she has the presence of mind not to say it.

Of course, with all that waffle stuffed in her mouth, she sounds like Rachel if Rachel were gagged with a sock, and that's somewhat satisfying.

"Look, I'll make it up to you," Blaine says. "I'll go out right now and get another box of mix. Or better yet, let me go down to that breakfast spot you like and get you one, all made and stuff."

Kurt watches his husband shuffle away, pants sinking lower on his hips till the crack of his ass shows, his back rippling with muscles through that tighter-than-tight shirt. Kurt suspects it might be Tracy's but he's not entirely sure. If it is, she's not getting it back.

"Actually," Kurt says, jogging to catch up. He grabs his husband's hand and drags him toward the door, seizing an opportunity of his own. "I have a better idea."

"Oh?" Blaine lets Kurt lead him, still blurry-eyed but ready to jump on board any idea that makes Kurt grin the way he is. "And that is …?"

"We're going to the bedroom. There's a few things _I_ feel like claiming."


End file.
